Who knows what it means
to be you or me.
Feast upon the geyser
that rests on Lucifer's chin.

Looking at you I see a lifelong flicker
incubating my heart with its warmth
zeppelins fall before this beauty.

You look at me, and I see our friendship grow
onwards into the night sky, and our time is
unending yielding the fruit of mechanical bliss.

Arriving at our destination I see you now.
Rocking back and forth; your heart in your hands.
Enchanting the room with your spiritual show.

Actually perhaps my feelings were premature,
maybe we'll be friends forever
and I can call your name from my dark light house.
Zapping to life the bitterness held
inside of my sad and miserable little chest.
Now, I close this poem with one last line.
Goodnight, and thank you for being you.

A large headed being sat and he did stare,
looking over my shoulder, looking at your lair.
In the void he sat, and on its rim you perched
looking upon that old monolith, larger than the earth.

He looked and said:
"Allow now that perchance your spirit
will not allow you to end my life.
Look downward upon my spiral
and scream out whatever your strife."

With a rage-filled yelp you leaped onto his stone head
crying you struck again and again until
as the soot settled the creature was dead,
and you found the peace within.

Let's make a deal
that the smoke scented
taste of your tongue
will never leave mine.

Breathe in the solitary fumes
of a million generations.
Man shall strike them down,
breaking into war spells our doom.

Even the animals
verify this existence.
Earth is just the husk
rejected by our sins.
Yet we continue down
Onward into our spiral,
neither here nor there we
even hate our mothers.

For now they perch on my doorstep
with tear filled vigor and remorse
pleading,  little earth worms looking
on in my eyes trying to force
their seed in my heart... demireps
and lechers crying in their ash.

A monk's resolute howls draw near.
I close my shutters to the wind.
An infantile pitter patter
brings resolution to my pane.
I look out upon the tattered
remains of man; I soon realize
it is not them, but I who's sinned

She tastes like the sun
that our bitter lives made.

And perhaps this truth
is why we can't be saved.

For the starlit girl
speaks against our false truths.

Not so innocent,
yet full of passion's youth.

The lunar eclipse
is not enough for her.

We are the disease.
And she? She is the cure.